Back for Seconds (Lone Star Second Chances Book 1)

by Ginger Voight

  They were even surlier when she picked them up that afternoon, but by then Joely was in no mood to overcompensate. Her frustrating day had been spent putting in applications all over town. She’d lucked out with a couple of interviews, but it only showed how ill-prepared she was to re-enter the workplace. She was awkward and uncertain, which brought both interviews to a close about ten minutes after they started. Even though they smiled and shook her hand, telling her they’d make a decision after they met with all the other applicants, she knew they had forgotten her name the minute she walked out the door.

  She had earned an Associate’s degree, but her major had never really been specified. She had no clue what she wanted to do with her future after she graduated. She had spent many of her college days working for her mom, waiting for inspiration to hit. It ended up walking through the door in the shape of Russell Morgan, a handsome hometown boy who was working towards his doctorate at Baylor in Houston. He dazzled her right from the beginning. They began a long distance courtship and two years later she was married, heading off for the big city to be with her love. She worked as an administrative assistant during his residency. When they returned to Abilene three years later, she was pregnant with their second child, Nash. She juggled work and motherhood until Russell opened his own practice in 2002. After that, she decided she’d rather be a homemaker. She had enough to handle with two small children at home. She’d leave taking over the world to other women who had the stamina.

  She just wanted to be a wife and a mom.

  Now her only job experience was administrative, but things had changed a little bit since 1997. She knew how to work basic computer programs, but most of her skills were archaic. Technology had advanced quite a bit while she was wiping noses and cleaning toilets. She knew from every receptionist she encountered that her age might also present a problem. Entry-level jobs were best suited for younger applicants, who were expected to live off of the meager pay.

  Joely realized with a sinking gut that was her fate now. Days of living in hundred-thousand dollar homes with nice padded savings accounts were things of the past.

  It depressed her so much that she ended up making a dozens of cupcakes that night – all gooey, fudgy double chocolate, because the occasion rightfully called for it.

  She was frosting her last one when Lillian and Granny Faye returned home that evening. “Are you trying to get me fat?” Granny Faye accused with a playful glare, right before she sank her teeth into the decadent treat.

  Joely just smiled. “What’s the matter with that, Granny Faye? You always told me that there was nothing wrong with a woman with a little meat on her bones.”

  Granny Faye chuckled. “True, true. But really. If you’re going to keep cooking like this I may have to get my blood sugar checked.” She glanced at the table where Joely worked. It was covered with cupcakes that had been individually decorated, like mini cakes. “You really do have a knack for this, honey. These are gorgeous.”

  “Thanks,” Joely said as she finished her last one. “I just do it to take my mind off of things. I get to make yummy things pretty and perfect. It’s like therapy I guess.”

  Granny Faye planted a kiss on top of her granddaughter’s head. “Then stay sick,” she teased.

  The next morning Joely hit the pavement again. She stopped at two employment agencies to sign up for any temp work they might have. Though they advertised several jobs that paid around what Joely figured she needed to survive, they, too, dismissed her with a form answer that basically boiled down to “Don’t call us. We’ll call you.”

  She started to wonder if her expectations were too high. But she had done her research and crunched the numbers. Even with Russell’s support, she needed to make much more than the going wage for the jobs for which she was qualified. A three-bedroom apartment in a moderately safe part of town would take up 80% of her income if she had to work for minimum wage, which meant she had to look for something that paid better or they’d never get back on their feet. Unfortunately, those better paying jobs required skills and experience that she didn’t have.

  She had a momentary and perverse thought that she should just divorce Russell and claim the alimony, but she rejected it almost the second it pierced her brain. She didn’t want to depend on anyone else for anything. She was going to make it on her own. It was the only way she’d ever feel secure again.

  By the end of the week her spirits were low, and her sullen children were not making it any easier. Hannah had a much easier time transitioning to the new school; she had at least four new best friends by the time she left school on Friday.

  But Kari and Nash were even more miserable by Friday than they were on Monday. They missed their friends and their teachers; they missed their dad. Russell called them every night, giving each of the kids ten whole minutes each of undivided attention. It struck Joely as ironic. That was more time than they used to get when they lived in the same house.

  Fortunately Lillian and Granny Faye knew how to keep them occupied. When they weren’t all at the restaurant, they were playing games like dominoes, checkers or – Granny Faye’s personal favorite – gin rummy. Between them they owed her $27.63 by week’s end.

  Joely wasn’t any happier than the kids. In the week she’d been on her own, she’d applied for twenty-two jobs, had five interviews and only one call-back. The bank where she had her second interview had held the most promise. The first supervisor seemed to take to her right away. Then she went upstairs to meet with the guy on the next rung on the ladder. She had met him at parties at the country club, but he didn’t even remember her name. That interview didn’t last as long, and they parted ways with the usual, “We’re still interviewing. We’ll let you know by next Friday.”

  She was feeling so low that Granny Faye bought her a little gift to boost her spirits. It was a decorating kit for cookies, with icing and decorations galore so she could get started. “I can’t keep eating your cakes and pastries, girl. I didn’t live to be seventy-four just so you could kill me with ten pounds of sugar in a week.”

  “And you think cookies are the answer?” Joely queried with an arched eyebrow.

  Her computer-savvy grandma showed her some videos of artisan cookies, where bakers painted each cookie by hand. Some looked like lace, others looked embroidered, and some even looked jeweled. They would take time to precisely execute, which meant her output would be substantially lower. This had been the genius of Granny Faye’s plan. Since she hadn’t found anyone to pay her to pass the time, Joely threw herself into this new project.

  Granny Faye’s brilliant idea to cut down on Joely’s output backfired. There were many failed attempts at first, ending up in the communal cookie jars as irregulars. She spent the entire Saturday baking dozens of cookies, dissatisfied first with the taste, then with the designs she attempted to replicate.

  Lillian stopped by the house to pick up the kids for dinner at the restaurant. The kitchen was a wreck and Joely sat hunched over a heart-shaped cookie, trying to steady her hand to create the flawless designs she’d found online. “Still nothing?”

  Joely barely shook her head. “Close though.” Just as she said it, she went a hair out of line with the lacy trim she was looping around the edges of the cookies. “Dammit!”

  Lillian chuckled as she patted Joely on the shoulder, leaning in to kiss her hair. Her dark tresses were powdered white from the residual powder. “You’ll get it, honey. Just keep trying.”

  “Is that for the cookies or life in general?” she asked.

  Lillian shrugged her shoulder. “Who says they aren’t one in the same?”

  Sunday came and went and she still wasn’t satisfied. She could spot all the tiny little imperfections in each and every cookie, which made her grandmother’s and her mother’s praises ring hollow. Out of sheer frustration, she ended up throwing all the misshapen, imperfect cookies right in the trash and called it an early night.

  She had to job-hunt in the morning.

 
Ironically when Hannah came home that Monday, there was a signup sheet for a bake sale to help raise money for a field trip to the Alamo in the spring. Though Hannah wasn’t yet old enough to go, Joely considered entering it anyway. It made her more determined than ever to create these challenging masterpieces. She enlisted Granny Faye’s help, heading back to the commercial restaurant supply store, to pick up even more gizmos and gadgets to aid her in her quest. They bought stencils and sprays, which were a little easier to use. Her cookies were prettier, but they weren’t the prettiest. For Joely, they had to be. Late at night when she couldn’t sleep, thinking about the bills and her obligations, and the apartment she’d have to rent and the furniture she’d have to buy, she’d get so stressed out she’d tiptoe down the stairs to the kitchen and whip up a dozen cookies to try her luck again.

  Slowly she was getting better, but she still wasn’t satisfied. It was almost rewarding to munch the cookies that represented her continued failure.

  She must have eaten a pound of cookies that week, and she felt it by the time she rolled out of bed that Friday. She carted the kids off to school and headed back to the house to try again. The minute she shut the door behind her, her cell phone rang. She thought maybe it was Russell, calling to coordinate the kids’ homecoming for the weekend. Instead her heart jumped as she realized it was the bank. “Hello?” she said as she answered on the first ring.

  “Yes, may I please speak with Mrs. Morgan?”

  “You are,” she said. Her heart practically leapt into her throat. This was a job with benefits and a nice entry-level salary. She had already found about four apartments she could qualify for should she get it. She crossed her fingers and a couple of toes as she waited.

  “Thank you so much for coming in and interviewing with us last week, Mrs. Morgan. It was a pleasure getting to know you. Unfortunately, we’ve decided to go with another applicant. We do wish you the best of luck on your job-hunting. Please feel free to apply again in six months.”

  “Thank you,” she croaked, the lump in her throat practically choking her. Her hand was shaking as she disconnected the call. She was back at the drawing board, with no more second interviews on the horizon.

  She escaped to the kitchen like she always did, where she baked away her feelings like she always did. She decided to pick the most complicated pattern she could find: lace. She whipped up a batch of royal icing, since she couldn’t stand the store-bought stuff, and went to work.

  She couldn’t get the job out of her head, though. She was so sure that she had a shot at that one. She had browsed the Internet almost nightly, trying to picture herself in the apartments that the twenty-five-thousand dollar salary could afford. That used to be her credit limit, now she’d consider herself lucky if she could turn that into an annual income. These days she was lucky to have a little over a thousand in the bank. Every time she logged on and looked at her balance, it made her stomach ache.

  Unfortunately her nerves were shot from the phone call. Her hands shook as she attempted to decorate the first cookie, turning it into an unrecognizable mess. As she stared at that lump of sugar and fat, tears began to roll down her face. A couple of weeks out on her own and this was all she had to show for her efforts. A stupid, formless, ugly little blob. She balled her fist and smashed it right into the old oak table where she worked. It felt so good she hit it again and again, a primal scream rising up in her throat as she literally pummeled her failure into dust.

  She was crying as she laid her head on the table, into her arms covered with flour dust, her hands crusting with discarded icing that had begun to harden. She sobbed until her soul ached. It was something she hadn’t done yet. In all this time, after all these changes, she had never fully let it all out.

  She cried until she hadn’t the energy to cry anymore. After the last sobs had subsided, she sat there at the table, her head on her arm, staring at the plate full of undecorated cookies. She sat up, wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands and sat back against the chair, staring at the heart-shaped cookies. With a sigh, she reached for another one.

  Her hands were a little steadier this time, but she still messed up the intricate design. She put the cookie aside and reached for another one. She went slower, taking care with every single stroke as she painted the icing onto the cookie. That cookie was a little prettier. She examined it up close with a critical eye, noting where her weaknesses were. She grabbed yet another cookie and repeated the same exact pattern.

  It took six cookies before she produced one that had no real noticeable flaws. She attempted to repeat it again and again until she ran right out of cookies.

  She headed to the kitchen and prepared another batch. She didn’t know why it was important for her to meet this goal, but it was. Maybe because this was the only thing she could fully control. She couldn’t control how Russell acted or what he said, or if he felt anything after torpedoing their marriage. She couldn’t control how the kids reacted to all the confusing, upsetting changes in their lives, nor could she control how they took all that anger out on her, unfair though it was. She couldn’t control whether or not these employers would hire her and give her a chance to show what she could do, rather than cast her aside for younger applicants who didn’t need the same kind of training.

  All she could control was getting this goddamn cookie right. And that was exactly what she was going to do.

  Finally, with that second batch, she managed to make more acceptable cookies than rejects. She studied them carefully, holding her hand to her chin, trying to pick out the most noticeable failures, until she whittled them down to six nearly flawless, almost identical lace heart cookies. She referred to the photo for the recipe, holding her cookie side by side to test it. Then, with a smile she hadn’t worn in a long, long time, she boxed up those six cookies and headed off to Lillian’s Place.

  She was ready to share her triumph with someone. Well, a couple of someones. The minute she walked through the front door, however, she was face to face with Xander Davy, who looked over her haggard appearance with a suppressed smile. “Hello, Joely,” he greeted at once, with that distinct British accent that made everything sound classier. “Surprised to see you,” he added as his eyes lazily drifted over her face and down her formless button-down shirt and faded blue jeans. Her dark hair was tied back with a kerchief, and she was still covered with remnants of flour and frosting.

  “Hi,” she managed. “Is my mom here?”

  “In the back,” he said with a widening smile. “Is there news? Did you get the job?”

  She frowned at once. She didn’t like that he even knew about the job. The last thing she wanted to do was admit yet another rejection to him. “No,” she finally answered. “They went another way.”

  “Aw,” he said as he reached for her arm in a gesture of support. “I’m sorry to hear that. There’s something better for you. I’m sure of it.”

  She wanted to ask how he could be so sure of it, but all she could do was lift her eyebrow and brush past him toward the kitchen. Her mother and her grandmother laughed together as they rolled out biscuit dough, preparing for the evening shift. Granny Faye spotted her first. “Well, you look like a cook if I’ve ever seen one. Roll up your sleeves and jump right in.”

  Joely laughed. She’d made plenty of biscuits in her day. She simply walked over to the big stainless steel table where they worked and presented the box of cookies. Both of their eyes widened as they opened their special gift.

  “Joely,” her mother breathed as she pulled out a cookie to examine it. “This is spectacular.”

  “Looks all right,” Granny Faye admitted. “But how does it taste?”

  Together they both took a bite. With rapturous moans, their eyes closed as they savored the treats.

  “Best cookie you’ve ever made,” Granny Faye praised. “And I should know. I’ve eaten about a thousand of them so far.”

  Joely beamed. “You really like them?” she asked. That was the important thing. Getti
ng the decorations right had been a personal quest. But her pride was that she had produced a tasty treat, not just a pretty one. It had to be completely perfect.

  “Honestly, honey,” Lillian said as she finished the cookie in a few bites. “I feel guilty eating it, but I can learn to live with the guilt. These are amazing.”

  Again Joely wanted to cry, but this time for an entirely different reason. It had taken her some time, but she had reached at least one of her new goals. She’d worked hard for this accomplishment, probably harder than she’d worked in a long, long time. It felt good. She reached for a hug from both of them.

  “I’ve got to go get the kids,” she said as she pulled away. “They need to be at their dad’s by six.”

  Both Lillian and Granny Faye made a face. Though they had made it a strict rule never to speak ill of the kids’ father in front of them, they made no bones about what a lowdown dirty cheat he was whenever they weren’t in earshot. “Why can’t he come get them?” Lillian wanted to know.

  Joely just smiled. “He’s probably afraid of meeting up with a firing squad.”

  “As he should be,” Granny Faye said. And she had the fire power to back it up.

  “Well, don’t dally,” Lillian said as she reached for another cookie. “You need to get back to the house and make another dozen of these. I’m putting in my order now. I could sell these at three or four dollars a pop.”

  Joely laughed and shook her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

  Lillian munched on the cookie with a big shit-eating grin. “No. I’m right. Haven’t you figured that out by now?”